The Conch

Grantham, Lincolnshire, UK circa 1843

“You’re dirty, you need a bath to wash away that colour. It looks like mud!” My cousin said, jerking away her outstretched arm in disdain. It was her idea, her request to compare our uncovered skin– side by side. Now the realization of the difference in skin colour, horrified and frightened her like being next to a diseased leper. Just the touch of my outstretched arms, my coffee-coloured arm, my dusty tan coloured skin, meant she might receive a tropical disease. Worst. Her alabaster white porcelain skin might change to a darker shade, just by a mere touch. She pulled away from me and clutched both her arms, like she was pulling and tightly clasping an imaginary protective shawl to surround her body. To protect herself, wrap herself in this visible blanket of safety, to protect her pure lily-white skin, from the dirty mulatto. Me!

Alice gave the impressions of grace and manners, but she was a brightly coloured jellyfish in disguise. She needed to wear a warning sign around her neck. Beware – I have a vehemence sting.

Unfortunately, most victims wanted to reach out and touch her, touch and engage with the perceived softness, the undulating and mesmerizing fluidity. Alice moved with grace and precision, it was like watching a water ballet performance, just like a jellyfish moving in the sea, their translucent bodies undulating gracefully through the water in a hypnotic display of fluid motion. The attractive vision of natural beauty was an illusion, as it harboured the painful stinging cnidocytes, ready to give the admiring voyeur a lesson to be always on guard in her presence.

She looked like one of Raphael’s angels with her brilliant white cotton dress, with hints of pink embroidered patterns on the bodice. The dress covered her from the chin right down to her feet, as she walked with her small, measured steps, her normal gait, which gave an impression of her gliding, hovering across the floor. Just like a jellyfish as it hovers and dances in the vast expanse of the watery ocean. Alice was part of my newly adopted family, at Belton House, in Lincolnshire, England. My new life is far away from my first and only love, the vast endless ocean, the paradise of the tropical islands of the Pacific.

The contrast, the sudden upheaval, the many months of my sea journey to these angry grey skied islands, had saddened my heart and soul. My new family was named Brownlow, the Brownlow’s of Lincolnshire presiding at the Belton Estate, near Grantham.

Alice Brownlow was part of my new world now, and her sting was as painful as those beautiful jellyfish I longed to see and now could only daydream about in my moments of lonely homesickness. My heart, my mind, my body are constrained wearing these long dresses, learning how to become a different person, in a different world. Longing for my birthplace, my tropical island paradise.

My malaise was interrupted by one of the page boys, who suddenly popped his head out of the conservatory door, which led to the patio. He was no older than I.

“You have a delivery malady, a box.” Speaking directly, politely in my direction.

“Presents!” Alice exclaimed with excitement. Then her mood abruptly changed to jealousy and annoyance.

“Who’s sending presents to you?” The question lingered accusingly in the air, with so many other unsaid subtexts. Alice considered my presence in the grand house an embarrassment to the high status of the Brownlow family, one of the oldest heritages of Lincolnshire, the family line, their rights and tenure in English history and their lands were recorded as far back as the declaration of charter of the Magna Carta of King John in the 13^th century. According to Alice my rightful place should be with the staff, but the colour of my skin even prevented that. My only useful purpose in her eyes was that of a companion, a playmate. If only she could make me invisible at will. A living moving toy-like companion, to listen to her opinions, her gossip, and play her endless games, trying to mimic adults, a male dance partner, or a guest at a pretend tea party.

Unfortunately, for Alice I was real, and I was her equal. In fact, I would one day inherit the name, the vast land and estate, and all the rights and privileges of the Brownlow heritage, including the overseas trading company - Belton Lines.

“Kindly, take it to my room. Thank you.” I replied to the waiting page boy.

A box, a gift, I wonder what it was. I thought with excitement.

When I finally managed to disengage from Alice’s company, I went with eagerness and anticipation to my bedroom. There are only so many varieties of imaginary tea parties with imaginary guests that Alice could concoct and conjure. More importantly, Alice needed to attend a French language lesson with her private tutor, which facilitated my escape route from the umpteenth torturous serving of Earl Grey, Darjeeling, and Orange Pekoe tea to me and her imaginary guests – mostly soft toys. Drinking the imaginary tea made me long for the fresh raw taste of coconut juice, my liquid sunshine.

When I entered my bedroom, the box stood proudly on my bed, with a bright red crimson tape captured and held the lid, and the bright red crimson bow sat on top. There was no note, nothing to indicate who the sender might be. As I stood looking at the box, I caught the fragrances of its travels. Only one who had traveled from afar, journeyed over the vast oceans of the world, and experienced the angry tempests of the winds on the unsheltered treacherous seas, would recognize the fragrant notes collected by the box on the long sea journey from afar. Nowadays, the winds and heavy seas play with the new sturdy iron clad steamers, making the sea journey shorter and more reliable compared to huge sails of the tea clippers always at mercy to the strength and direction of the mighty trade winds.

I leapt onto my bed and wrapped my arms around the ribboned box, I knew it must contain something special, as personal gifts I seldom received. As I pulled off the decorative red ribbon, the bow remained attached to the lid. I slowly removed the lid, whatever was inside was large and heavy, as the box remained anchored to the bed. I peered into the shadows of the interior of the box, there were masses of straw packing. Something glinted in the light, as the straw was hastily removed, and dumped haphazardly on the bedroom floor. The partial appearance of the object smiled from the confines of the box; it looked like two large lips still half submerged in the packaging. After the removal of the all the straw, the object revealed itself – it was a conch. With beautiful shades of bright pink, hues and shades of coral, and a huge spiral of its endless tail. The spiraling tail was like the alicorn horn that a leader of unicorns would be so proud to own, to herald itself as the king of unicorns in the group - the blessing.

I slowly removed it from the box and held the conch up for inspection. A small drip of water appeared from inside the shell and plopped onto the bed cover. It was a sign, a message from the sea, the island of my birth, it was a teardrop of remembrance, the essence of my previous world in a small drop of water, my lands and seas from far away. Both in terms of distance and time. I closed my eyes, and my other senses started to explore, holding the conch it all came flooding back, the smells, the warm sunshine, the bright colours, the crashing sounds of the incoming waves, shortly to be followed by the orchestrated and accompanying shimmering, the rushing sounds of the miniscule glistening crystals of sand, as the sea retreated. Timelessly, the sea and the land danced up and down the beach, playing an endless frolicking game, driven by the incoming and outgoing tides.

I thought I heard a distant familiar whispering voice coming from inside the labyrinth, the endless spiral of the conch. I recognized the voice; it was that of my grandmother. I remembered her weather-beaten dark olive brown skin. Her matted hair, blown by the winds of time, but it was those searching black eyes, full of deep wisdom, eyes that constantly searched beyond the outside features, they bore into the soul, and then as she recognized my soul, her face softened into a broad smile, her eyes brightened with the pleasant memories we shared. I put my nose inside the opening of the conch, and I could now smell her perfume, the salty aroma of the sea, with hints of cedarwood and coconut trees, limes and flora fragrances. But the smell did not make me homesick, it made me feel stronger. It made me feel invigorated, and reborn. The holistic memories of my grandmother lingered, and then gradually I comprehended the whispering message.

“You will become the leader of the tribe, and ruler of distant lands – it is your birthright”

It was her repeated prophecy of me, repeated so often during those early heavenly days on my tropical island paradise by the vast ocean.